The Winning Game
by sureimsherlock
Summary: School AU. Sherlock is the gorgeous, but hated, captain of the St Bart's Academy soccer team. John is the stocky new midfielder, transferred recently from a rival school. Sherlock notices John's talent, and sparks fly. Inspired by the beautiful art of muffinmoip. Rated M for slight smut. Probably oneshot, possibly longer if I'm inspired. Ratings and reviews always appreciated!


School! Lock Soccer AU Fic

"Here!" yelled Sherlock, the tall, achingly attractive soccer captain for St Bart's Academy. He masterfully took the ball as the stocky midfielder passed it to him. Sherlock, a powerful forward, slammed the ball into the goal right past the hapless goalkeeper. He allowed himself one small victory cheer as the crowd went wild, and he snickered to himself as he walked off the field.

"Good job, Holmes," grunted the coach as Sherlock strode past him. The striker smirked a bit as he paraded past the watchful eyes of his teammates. They all hated him, of course, the brilliant soccer (and academic) upstart who rose meteorically to captain after **two bloody games**, unceremoniously ousting the previous captain to the position of left defense. Sherlock was ruthlessly good at soccer, like everything else, and he made no secret of the fact.

Sherlock walked into the locker room, shedding his clothes like he was being timed on it. He wrapped a towel around his waist and leaned against the lockers. He hated the feeling of being sweaty, and sweaty clothes on his skin, but he wanted to have a quick chat with that new midfielder, John, was his name? He was good, really good, not as good as Sherlock of course, but adequate. Acceptable. Sherlock wanted to talk to him.

John came strolling in after a few minutes, grinning like a madman on the high of their victory against their main rival school. "Hey, Holmes!" he said, noting the lanky forward lounging with a bored expression against the wall of lockers. Sherlock looked up, pretending he'd just noticed John coming in. "Oh, Watson. Hello. I'm your captain," Sherlock said, cordially extending a hand. "I don't think we've properly met."

"No, I don't think so," John responded, taking Sherlock's hand and shaking it firmly. "I'm John Watson. I'm new here." His face burned as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He kicked himself mentally. Of** course **he was new, moron. But this striking boy in front of him was distracting him, making him nervous and trip over his words.

Sherlock decided to be merciful with the awkward midfielder. He retracts his hand, smiling gently. "I know. What happened over at your old school? Some sort of injury, I heard."

John winced at the memory, tenderly fingering the spot on his shoulder. "Yeah, I fell and this big bloke with metal cleats stomped on my shoulder." He pulled aside the collar of his jersey, exposing the ugly scar on his shoulder. He quickly covered it up again, feeling self-conscious.

Sherlock smiled again, this time a bit more maliciously, looking like the fabled wolf about to devour his dim-witted prey. "But why'd you have to transfer schools for that? It's just a footballer's injury, right?"

John shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. "Well, this sort of put me out of commission for a while, and the chap who did it ended up getting expelled… hey, what are you doing? Coach'll kill you if he sees you!"

While John had been talking, Sherlock had pulled a cigarette from his secret stash and lit up. He leaned his head back against the locker and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. "I know," said Sherlock, sounding more than a bit bored. "That's half the fun. Now are we done chatting?" Sherlock was being a bit more obvious with his 'checking-out' of John now. Dense, compact muscles rippling under tan skin, golden hair shining when they played in the sunshine; Sherlock shivered. John was such a gorgeous contrast to his own pale skin, dark hair, and wiry muscles. "Shower?" Sherlock inquired before grinning. "I want to get in there before Anderson contaminates it with his stupidity.

John immediately became flustered as Sherlock stalked (there was no other word for it; he looked like he was hunting an easy kill) towards John and said, in a low voice that dripped from his lips like honey, "Get undressed."

John's heart thudded in his chest, but his hands were quite willing to obey. His soccer shorts fell to the floor, followed shortly by (what?!) his boxers. He leaned back against the lockers, breathing hard and he looked over at the pale boy relaxing next to him, smoking that damn cigarette so calmly, it was infuriating. Inexplicably, a smile spread across John's face. He turned and looked coyly at the striker, with those ridiculous eyes and that stupid hair and the long fingers holding that cigarette so freaking seductively. Sherlock noticed him looking and smiled. He dropped his cigarette, letting it burn out against the cool tiled floor. He leaned over to John, helping him out of his jersey. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John full on the mouth, not hard, but insistent. His newly freed hands travelled down and stroked John's (erect? What?) member slowly, just once. The captain then pulled away, looking far too pleased with himself. He tossed John a towel. "Shower time!" he called over his shoulder, leaving a disbelieving John to follow close on his heels.


End file.
